aspirate
by greyve
Summary: Yeah. Confrontation happens, especially after one of those matches. zayn/cesaro hella dumb unproofread porn


It's a quiet day in the locker room. The usual frenzy has died down; nobody sprinting to and fro or crowding on the benches, no big matches, no hysteria or fights happening at the university. It's calm. Nice.

Sami can definitely appreciate moments of quiet. He's not even booked for a match today, but he's tossing on his gear just in case; it's best to be prepared, in the case of some crazy thing or booking springing up. He can people watch from here, anyway. See Breeze alternate a pattern of furious tweeting and snapping selfies in the mirror. Look at Woods trying to dress while frantically reading some Psychology journal, with little success. The usual.

Adrian, clad in one of his usual unnaturally fitting polo shirts, passes him on the bench – does a double-take the second he seems to notice he's there – and stands there, looking troubled. "Yeah?" Sami asks inquisitively. The way his friend is looking at him makes him anxious. Feels like bad news, when he's like this.

"Cesaro's been askin' around for you. Been lookin' around for you all day."

Sami just pauses (partially relieved) and says, "That's weird," then continues pulling his boots on. Good match and changed perspectives or not, Cesaro isn't exactly one to meet up and chitchat over anything. Certainly not with him, anyway; that rivalry and hard feelings aren't totally eroded after the hug. That was just. A flight of respect, maybe. Temporary in its intensity.

"Y'reckon he wants a rematch?"

"What, so soon after he beat me? No way."

Adrian shakes his head, gives a little sigh. "Then I dunno what I can tell you. Just sayin' – if I were you, I'd just keep away from the sucker." Sami can only give a weak, flickering smile as he stands up and affectionately squeezes his shoulder, heads out into the hall.

Yeah, he can appreciate good advice. It doesn't mean he has to follow it.

* * *

It shouldn't come to a surprise that when he does find Cesaro, he's immediately being shoved back into a nearby supply closet without as much as a 'hello.'

Turning the lock, he shoots him a depreciating gaze. Takes it as an opportunity just to throw a speech, apparently. "You're weak, Sami. You've always been so," he struggles for a moment in finding an acceptable word, "pitiable. There's nothing you can do to lighten the scales in your favor. You might as well give up."

"What's this about?" Sami asks, looking anxiously at the doorknob behind Cesaro's sturdy body, then back up at him. He's not really scared of him, per se, but there's something just intrinsically uncomfortable here, something making the hair on the back of his neck and arms stand up, cat-like. He'd just rather not be here.

Cesaro just brushes off the question, continues rambling on. "You see: I'm still stronger than you, Sami." It's not a fact that sits particularly well with him, leaving something fluttery in his stomach; there's a little flicker of recognition in Cesaro's eyes when he spots that little something that gives it away. "Oh, it's very true. You can run around, do your little," he gestures mockingly with a flutter of his fingers, "_tricks_, but I will always be able to outpower you. Out of the two of us, I will always come out superior."

There's this moment where Sami feels totally at a loss, and he's probably half gawking at the guy because, _wow_. It's really damn petty to just drag him in here to brag, but it's also token Cesaro, so. So. So, he doesn't know.

"C'mon, man. Let me go," he eventually pleads.

The man stands predictably resolute. Might as well be chained to the damn doorknob, as he definitely has no plans of budging anytime soon. "I'm not letting either of us out of this room until you admit it." He nearly preens. "How much better I am at everything."

Sami's brow furrows in the sheer absurdity of – whatever this is, and his lip curls alongside with it. "No," he scoffs, shaking his head. Cesaro's head cocks and his arms cross over his chest in a silent'well, then we're not going anywhere.' Apparently they're at an impasse, which is getting more and more inane every single second of silence that passes. His arms fold over his chest and he stands up a little taller, too, just to match as a sort of challenge.

And they stand like this for a while. At this proximity (tiny), it might as well be a staring contest. Cesaro looks deathly serious with his lips set flat and thin the entire, while he slowly but surely breaks from a dire look to a crooked grin. He'd be damned if he didn't find it ridiculous and kind of funny, but it might be the lack of ventilation getting to him. It's just too stuffy for them to be breathing the same air.

Tellingly, a bead of sweat gathers and falls down from Cesaro's temple. He can't help but flick his gaze onto it, watch it roll messily down his cheek. The moment when Cesaro eyes wrinkle knowingly and where he moves a hand up to swipe it away is essentially the moment where, well. He dies of embarrassment, really, and looks away. There's this little huff of laughter from Cesaro, but he doesn't move an inch.

Sami finds it easier to breathe here, humiliating as it may be, away from his warmth. Easier to think, too. Flashbacks of meaningless thoughts, dreams. Something tightens in his ribcage, because suddenly those little thoughts seem so important. Memories, too, of years of tense and bloodied matches and heated but stifled tension in the locker room thereafter.

It's probably what this whole thing is _really_ about, actually.

He moves his head, looks back into his eyes. Cesaro is now giving a cocky smile, and he can't find a semblance of doubt in those eyes. Still can't find anything when he raises his arms and cups Cesaro's chin, his cheek, as his smile just grows wider and brighter. Nothing falters at all even when he come close enough to make the intent of movement clear.

Kissing Cesaro is only a mildly daunting task, because he's been pretty confident about this for a while so after he's gotten enough of those little hints over the years that he's probably not going to be clobbered to death over doing this now. The _act_ of kissing Cesaro is surprisingly nice, though nothing special.

It's Cesaro out of the two of them that kisses the most tentatively, lips on his moving slow and purposeful. It's not what Sami imagined this to be, _wants_ this to be, so he presses into Cesaro and Cesaro presses harder into the door, yielding to him and letting Sami go from kissing him to grinding (just a little) against him to basically tonguefucking him, and he's just standing there, taking it, as if he's not actually the _Antonio fucking Cesaro_ who basically cornered him three minutes ago.

It's intolerable. He breaks away, breathless and wide-eyed and – and Cesaro barely looks phased, unruffled aside from a flushed, wet mouth. Sami opens his mouth to ask him what the hell his deal is, but stalls when he sees Cesaro's hand move, press insistently down on his shoulder. He balks. "Seriously?"

"I don't think it's that outrageous of a thing to ask from you," he says casually, as if he were having lunch with a friend and not currently trapped in a closet with his dick pressing into Sami's hip. "It seems like something you do often."

"Ugh." He shakes his head, but he sinks down to his knees anyway (god, he's thought about this for such a long time) and hooks his fingers into Cesaro's tights and undertrunks, pulling them down around his thighs quickly and unceremoniously. There's an approving sigh from above when he moves his hand to his dick and gives a good hard tug.

(Sami doesn't look up, though, because he doesn't want this to get more intimate or that tight feeling of skepticism and maybe even a little loathing might just explode out of his chest, or at least it feels like it would.)

It really isn't something Sami does often. But he appreciates it, the second he closes his eyes and fills his mouth with him, likes the scent of his sweat as he breathes around him and his taste as he runs his tongue around his head.

Even when Cesaro moves to firmly cradle his chin in one hand beard, there's not a lot of force behind it; his hips stay still as Sami works between his legs, pulling, sucking, only giving feedback in the occasional grunt and the way he flexes his fingers through his beard.

It almost feels comfortable, really, and he hums in contentment as he just bobs his head slowly up and down – not too deep because it really isn't the time to test his poor gag reflex – for a few minutes, until he can feel that deep ache in his jaw and those fingers begin to scrape impatiently along his chin.

"Come on, Sami," Cesaro murmurs. He flicks his gaze up, appreciates the sight of him with a hand tucked behind his head and his teeth biting his lip giving him a little nod. It's kind of strange sight, really, because he's not sure he's ever seen Cesaro even tolerating him being in the same room as him since, well. _Ever_, and he's here sucking him off like it's a regular Tuesday.

But he looks down and hums an 'okay' around him, speeds up and sucks harder, moves his hand accordingly to goad that long, low moan out of Cesaro. He's too focused on trying to get the man off to try to divert attention to himself, but he presses the heel of his hand between his clothed legs and grinds on his half-hard dick just to relieve a hint of that niggling tension.

Sooner rather than later, Cesaro's hips quiver tell-tale underneath him. He'd really rather pull off and let the guy finish somewhere else, but the hand on his chin is holding him firmly on, keeping Sami's head still as Cesaro sighs and spills his come around his mouth, paints his tongue white and even with it. Weirdly, it's the filthy movement of him pulling his softening and slippery dick out of his mouth that leaves Sami red and mortified, suddenly ashamed and aware that, yes, _this really did happen_. He lets that thought eat him up inside a little as he grabs a nearby bucket, tilts his head and lets his semen drip out of his mouth, forcing it out with a push of his tongue.

After that shameful little moment, he looks up. Cesaro looks down at him, expression unidentifiable as he dabs himself with a washcloth and does himself back up. "You have a little," he starts, motioning towards his beard.

When Sami self-consciously wipes his mouth, Cesaro's expression breaks freely into a wide grin, gives a – definitely arrogant, he can tell – little laugh, tilting his head up to, Sami guesses, look down on him. "You can take care of," he pretty blatantly points at his dick. "That, yourself."

And when Cesaro turns on his heel, opens the damn door and leaves him there, still half-hard and maybe come-streaked – he's seething a little, but wanting, needing more.

It takes a second for him to realize his heart is hammering in his chest, and a lot longer for it to stop.


End file.
